


Age

by Viceter



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 15 years later, F/F, Fluff, Mild Sexual Content, Romance, and married, they're older in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 12:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7977340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viceter/pseuds/Viceter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angela never gets sick. Angela never scars. After 15 years together, Fareeha knows this. (Fluffy older Rocket Angel fluff).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Age

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published at http://viceterships.tumblr.com/post/145838372304/age on 6/12/2016 and not retconned for recent canon developments.
> 
> Please note that Mercy is biologically, physically 52 in this piece, while Pharah is 47. Mercy is NOT an immortal vampire; the nanomachines only stymie the effects of aging, prevent scarring, and thwart illness.

**_Synopsis: Angela never gets sick. Angela never scars. After 15 years together, Fareeha knows this. (Fluffy old lady Rocket Angel with some mildly nsfw moments)._ **

**_Pairing: Rocket Angel (Fareeha “Pharah” Amari/Angela “Mercy” Ziegler)_ **

The first time Fareeha noticed something was wrong with her wife of twelve years was during a lazy morning in bed. Angela lay on her stomach, humming contentedly, as Fareeha, equally naked and equally content, rubbed her back. Fareeha admired the contrast of their skin, her dark, scarred hands pressing into the subtle musculature of Angela’s back.

“Fareeha, Schatz, you spoil me,” Angela drawled, purring as her wife’s thumbs eased a knot between her shoulders. Fareeha used to worry that her hands were too rough for the milk-smooth skin of her then-girlfriend, until, one night, as though reading her mind, Angela had taken her hands, kissing every scar and every callus.

“I love your hands, Liebling. I love how they feel when you touch me,” she had said between every brush of her lips. Fareeha, moved beyond words, had run those hands over every inch of Angela’s body, memorizing the shape of her arched back; the sensation of Angela’s nipples hardening beneath her thumbs; and the slick, wet heat of being inside of her.

She let her hands wander now, traversing the dips and curves of her wife’s form, leaning down to plant kisses and bites across her shoulders, down the back of her neck. She trailed her tongue over Angela’s spine, earning a shiver. At her tailbone, Fareeha paused, her thumb trailing over a patch of raised skin at Angela’s hip.

“That’s new,” she said, examining the scar.

“Oh, don’t stop now love.” The breathlessness in Angela’s voice drove all other thoughts from her mind, all the more so when she shifted beneath Fareeha to lie on her back. She reached for Fareeha’s hands and pulled her down, tangling her hands in Fareeha’s hair and kissing her sweetly and soundly.

They spent the remainder of the morning very pleasantly occupied, and Fareeha did not think of Angela’s new scar until weeks later.

* * *

Doctor Angela Ziegler was sick. A case of the flu. She was running a 38.4 Celsius fever; her nose wouldn’t stop dripping; her head felt like Torbjorn had decided to go rampaging through it with his hammer, and she had a wet cough that made her sound like a barking dog. Her sometimes overly-attentive wife was currently spoon-feeding her heavily-spiced chicken noodle soup and forcing a reservoir’s worth of fluids into her body.

“Fareeha, I’m fine, you don’t have to stay home. It’s just the flu!” She grumbled, nasally, of course.

“Not a chance. I know you. You’ll find some way to work. You need rest.”

“I am a doctor, you know!” Angela groused, reaching for the mug of tea on the bedside table. Fareeha, quick as a falcon, retrieved it and would have tipped it into her mouth for her, had she not glared and snatched it from her hands.

“Yes, yes, I know. But you never get sick. Let me enjoy this.” It wasn’t often that Fareeha used her ability to be extremely adorable to win arguments, but this time, she looked at Angela with her shining, big brown eyes and said, “Please?”

Angela huffed. Fareeha knew she’d won, so she leaned over the bed and stole a kiss. Her wife scowled at her, messy blonde hair and stuffy voice making it impossible to take her seriously when she scolded her:

“I’m contagious, Fareeha!”

She just laughed in response.

“I’ve braved rockets, grenades, and heavy fire to kiss you. If you think the flu would keep me from doing that, you’re mistaken.”

Angela tried to stay angry, she really did, but when Fareeha was being that charming, and when she smiled in that lopsided way, regarding her with so much love and affection that Angela thought her heart might burst — well, she was powerless against that.

It wasn’t until that evening, after Fareeha had stepped out of the shower and was toweling her hair in a sports bra and compression shorts — Angela found it mightily inconvenient that this flu business kept her too incapacitated to pounce on her wife when she looked that hot; 47 and she still had a six pack and the musculature of a teenager — that something seemed to click in Fareeha’s mind. She stood at the foot of the bed, absently rubbing the towel over her hair, her brow furrowed. She cocked her head to the side, staring at Angela.

“Angela, you never get sick. And you never scar. Is something wrong? Did something happen?” Fareeha asked, and Angela sighed. She knew she’d have to say something sooner or later, but hadn’t yet figured out exactly how to tell Fareeha….

“Müsli, come to bed. I’m tired and sick and I want you to hold me. Can we talk about this when I’m feeling better?”

Fareeha frowned.

“I promise you, there is nothing wrong. Okay?”

Fareeha nodded, once.

“Okay. I love you,” she said, with same passionate conviction she had the very first time she’d said it, and Angela felt guilty for the worry she saw creasing Fareeha’s forehead.

“And I love you.” Her wife turned off the lights and climbed into the space beside her. Angela turned and kissed her, glad for the grin that formed on Fareeha’s lips.

“I thought you were contagious,” she teased.

“Shush,” Angela murmured, nuzzling into her chest and letting the swell of Fareeha’s chest lull her to sleep.

* * *

“Fareeha?” Angela poked her head into the study, finding her wife on the phone, issuing questions and commands with what she referred to as her ‘Captain Pharah’ voice, though now, it was more like ‘Commander Pharah.’ Fareeha smiled, winked, and beckoned her in. Angela came up behind her, wrapping her arms around her waist. She breathed in the familiar scent of her lover of fifteen years, wife of twelve, and steeled herself for the conversation they were about to have.

“Saleh, good job. As soon as Symmetra’s settled, get her and the rest of the team together and give me a call. I’ll deliver the briefing personally. Great. Thanks. It’s good to have you on the ground, old friend.” Fareeha hung up and took Angela into her arms. “Good news, ya amar. We may finally be close to stabilizing South Africa. Satya’s in transit now, and Jesse’s arriving with his enforcers next week.”

“He needs to retire.”

Fareeha chuckled; pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I’d like to go once Symmetra and McCree say it’s okay. The people will need proper medical attention,” Angela said.

“I expected as much. The paperwork is already in the works.”

Angela leaned her head against Fareeha’s chest.

“I love you,” she murmured. Fareeha’s acceptance of her need to be out in the field, making a difference in the world, was one of the reasons Angela adored her wife. Despite her protectiveness and her compulsion to keep Angela out of harm’s way, she knew that helping others was as much in Angela’s character as hers, and only ever opposed the doctor’s desire to be on the ground when the situation was especially risky. Danger was a cornerstone of their lives as Overwatch agents, and they had both made peace with it a long time ago. Keeping Fareeha out of her Raptora suit, or Angela out of her Valkyrie would have made them incredibly unhappy, and likely spelled the deathknell of their relationship. Their love was built on deep mutual respect and admiration for the other’s passion; denying the pursuit of it would have meant denying the very bones of the other.

“I should hope so. You married me.”

Fareeha was in a good mood. Well, that would make this easier.

“I have to tell you something, Liebchen.” Angela pulled away from Fareeha and took her hands. She took a deep breath. “I disabled my nanomachines.”

Fareeha’s face contorted, cycling through disbelief, then shock, then anger, then disbelief again, and finally, worry.

“What? Why would you do that? Are you okay? Will you be all right?” She demanded, her hands coming up to Angela’s shoulders and gripping them tightly.

Angela smiled, hoping that she could calm her wife.

“Yes, Fareeha. I’ll be fine. I’ll suffer from the same things everyone else does — sickness, scarring, old age. I won’t heal as quickly, and my lifespan will only last as long as a typical human, but nothing worse than that.”

“But why? Angela, you — you’ve had them for as long as I’ve known you! Did something happen?” Fareeha looked like she was on the verge of utter panic, and Angela felt her stomach drop. She hated seeing Fareeha so distraught.

“No, Liebling. Nothing happened. I made a decision.” She cupped Fareeha’s face in her hands, blue eyes boring into brown. “I did it because I want to grow old with you.”

Fareeha reeled back as though struck.

“Angela,” she breathed, her eyes welling with tears. “You… I… it didn’t matter to me.”

“I know, my love,” Angela said, biting her lip. “I wanted to. I want to grow old with you, Fareeha. I don’t want to be stuck in time.” She felt something lodge in her throat. She thought of the way she’d felt when Fareeha’s hair had started to turn gray, and the wrinkles began to form around her eyes; on her forehead. She remembered the longing, and the pain of the knowledge that she would never experience that. That she would watch Fareeha age, and she would stay the same. That Fareeha would pass, one day, and she would be… alone, without Fareeha for another lifetime, or maybe more. “I want to have my hair turn gray, or white as it may be; I want to experience what you experience — the aches, the pains of aging. I want to retire one day. With you.” Fareeha’s tears streamed freely down her face, and Angela realized she was crying too. “I don’t… I don’t want to live without you.”

“Angela…”

“When I was young, I thought I wanted to be immortal. I thought that death was an enemy to be fought; a chronic plague to be cured. I was afraid of dying, and I was afraid of the people I love dying. I still am! But I - I want to hang up my wings one day, and I want to let those who come after us forge their own future. And most of all, I want to go through a natural life with you.”

Fareeha seized Angela in a hug that squeezed the breath from her lungs.

“I want to grow old with you, too.”

“Will you still love me when I’m old, gray, and wrinkled?” Angela asked, her voice shaky.

“I will love you until the end of this life and every life that comes after.”


End file.
